


Catch Me if I Fall

by JustAGirl24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Kid Fic, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're honeymooning in Dorne when he picks up the blister packet of birth control pills, looks at her with one raised eyebrow, and motions towards the trashcan. She bites her lip, blushes, nods. He grins and tackles her back to the bed, her laughter filling the room. They miss their afternoon tour <em>and</em> their dinner reservations. She doesn't give it a second thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me if I Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiofreeamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiofreeamy/gifts).



> Inspired by the following prompt:
> 
> "I am desperately craving an angsty fic. I want to be brought to tears; and by the end of the fic there will be resolution and joy. Happy endings are so much better after a little angst. 
> 
> Jaime and Brienne are married and are trying desperately to have a baby. Things just aren't happening, and Brienne blames herself and in turn tries ending the relationship, thus breaking Jaime's heart. Brienne's insecurities about not being woman enough would really be a depressing thing to explore. They would work things out and will eventually have a kid or adopt. This could be AU or canon.
> 
> Make me cry, people! And maybe throw in some smut too."
> 
> Tissue alert. I didn't warn people the last time I wrote angst. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> Please note, this deals with a sensitive subject, namely miscarriage. While not detailed, if such talk is upsetting to you, I won't be offended if you move along.

She loves Jaime, loves the way his eyes light up when he sees her, loves how he's always on her side, loves the way he steals food off her plate and tickles her feet when she's trying to read and cuts her off mid-sentence before sheepishly realizing what he's done.

He gives her a ring. 

When she walks down the aisle, her mother's dress brushing her ankles, he's waiting for her with a smile that puts the sun to shame. Saying 'I do' is the easiest thing in the world.

They're honeymooning in Dorne when he picks up the blister packet of birth control pills, looks at her with one raised eyebrow, and motions towards the trashcan. She bites her lip, blushes, nods. He grins and tackles her back to the bed, her laughter filling the room. They miss their afternoon tour _and_ their dinner reservations. She doesn't give it a second thought.

Months pass, then a year, and nothing. Twelve noes. She can feel his disappointment, and thinks maybe it's disappointment in her. Another four, five, six months, and still nothing. She feels—too many things and not enough. Mostly she feels like a failure. 

The doctors have no answers. The tests come back normal for her, for him. She keeps a brave smile on her face. Tries to  _relax_ , like her friends say. Tries to believe  _it'll happen when it happens_.

It's been twenty months when the nausea she’s been trying to tamp down all day surges with a vengeance. She makes it back to her desk and starts to email her supervisor that she’s going home with the flu. She pauses, looks at her calendar, and counts the weeks since the last set of red X's. She tries to quell the hope rising within her. She buys a test on her way home, unwraps the plastic stick with shaking hands, waits, hopes, prays.

She's waiting for him when he gets home, eyes bright, test stick clutched tight in her hands. He pauses, glances from her face to her hands, and freezes. He meets her eyes slowly, and she sees the fragile hope she'd felt that morning reflected there. She nods, grins, laughs as he spins her around, both of them laughing until they're crying. They make love, and she feels as beautiful as he always tells her she is.

She spends blissful hours looking at nursery themes and baby books between bouts of nausea, evenings with Jaime's head in her lap, his lips brushing against her stomach as he whispers to their baby.  She is happier than she ever dreamed.

She is almost eleven weeks along, busy getting dressed, when the dull twinge in her lower back turns into a sharp cramping. It’s all over before Jaime can get back home, a raging, twisting pain that tears through her with ferocious intent and leaves a gaping hole behind.

She is laying in the cool dark of their room, curled on her side, shoulders shaking in quiet grief. He curls up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. They lay there in silence. Her tears soak the pillow. His soak the back of her shirt.

She has never felt more empty; she has never felt more alone.

Jaime takes her to the doctor to confirm what they already know. The doctor holds one of her hands in his firm, dry grasp. She almost cannot bear the sympathy in his eyes, but his voice is kind. He says to wait six weeks, try again.

The drive home is mostly quiet. She stares out the window, trees and shops and white picket fences passing in a blur, and Jaime’s voice fading into it all.

He tries. Gods know he tries. He stays with her until she can't bear it, and she tells him to go back to work. He makes dinners, but she can’t eat more than a few bites. He brings home flowers that she can’t bear to see. He forces her to shower, lays out clean pajamas every time.

It is after one of these showers, maybe two weeks later—maybe not, the days all bleed together—that he steers her out the front door and into the car. They ride in silence until he stops the car, and she sees where he’s taken her.

The words pour out, and it is like she hasn’t used her voice in ages. She tells him to leave, tells him it’s her fault, tells him he should have married someone who looks and acts like a woman instead of chaining himself to her. And when she’s finally exhausted herself, her voice half-gone—for the first time, she really _looks_ at him, and she sees that he is hurting, too.  She leaves the car, enters the building, and sits in the therapist’s office for an hour, crying and screaming out her rage and pain to a complete stranger. Dr. Donyse simply listens with an inscrutable look on her face. She hands Brienne a card when their hour is up with another appointment scheduled in two days.

She feels lighter than she has in too long, as though she can breathe again, just a little. She gives Jaime a wan smile, tells him she’d like some chicken fried rice from the little place nearby. He looks so relieved, she can’t help but smile a little bigger. It’s a step.

She sees Dr. Donyse twice a week. She eats some of the dinners Jaime makes. She showers and puts on real clothes. She makes arrangements to work part-time from home.

Eight more weeks have passed. She takes a deep breath, gives him a weak smile, and says _maybe, try again?_ She is still fragile. He is hesitant. Maybe it's too soon.

She just wants to be normal again. She tries to remember how that feels.

Six weeks go by, and they’ve been together a handful of times. She tries to go through the motions, makes the noises she thinks he’ll like. She holds him in the cradle of her thighs and enjoys the press of his skin against hers, his hot breath against her neck. She’s not fooling anyone, not herself, not him, but she’s scared of what could happen if she stops even trying.

She is reviewing expense reports a few weeks later when desire curls low in her stomach, and it takes a moment to recognize it. It is like when they first got together, when she was constantly distracted by memories of his soft, golden hair between her fingers, his lazy smile in the morning sunlight, the muscles of his thighs straining his trousers. Her thoughts wander to him all afternoon, and she is there to meet him by the door as soon as he gets home. She pulls him to her by his tie and kisses him. He moves back to look at her a moment, and she smiles at him hopefully.

He kisses her hungrily then, fingers spearing through her thin hair, almost devouring her. She meets him just as desperately, ripping a button off his shirt in her haste. He whispers _love you, love you_ between kisses, she moans and says _yes_. He moves away long enough to pull her shirt over her head, unhook her bra, and fling them both to the floor. It’s only a moment before her breasts fill his hands and his tongue is sliding against her own. Low moans and sharp gasps fill the air between them, his and hers. She runs her knuckles over the front of his trousers, relieved in a way she can’t describe to feel that he still desires her. She undoes the button and zip, slides her hand in to curl around him, and strokes him roughly, the way she knows he likes. He growls into her mouth before walking her backwards to the bedroom, her hand still wrapped around him the whole way until he pushes her back onto the bed. He grins, sharp and wild, and pulls at fastenings and fabric until they are both naked. He is—gods, _beautiful,_ and _hers._ She pulls him to her, and she is _wetwetwet_. He moves inside her, his fingers playing over her slick nub, and she is soaring, flying. She can feel him twitching inside her as he comes.

He kisses her neck, spoons up behind her. His fingers weave with hers, and she’s finally able to _listen_ as he whispers that he loves her, that he doesn’t need anything more, that they can adopt if she wants or try other doctors. She says she’ll think about it, but for now, she just wants to be with him.

Two years and three months pass by, and Brienne waits, hopes, prays. She is more cautious this time, tries not to get her hopes up. Her breasts are tender, and the nausea is almost unbearable.

He lays his head in her lap every evening, his lips brushing her stomach as he talks to their baby.

She looks more like a marshmallow, less like the women in her books and magazines with their basketball stomachs. She is red and sweaty and beams in every picture he takes of her.

When their child—her eyes, his nose—finally arrives, she knows that everything, the last five years, the heartache, the tears, the guilt, have all led to this moment. And it is beautiful.

 


End file.
